Firebird
by Bosmeri
Summary: In a strange twist of fate, the Dragonborn of legend discovers her apparent immortality when a simple excursion in the Jeralls near Riften comes to an abrupt, tragic end, forcing two of her closest friends to face the finality of death, and the subsequent miracle of rebirth and dragon blood.
1. Chapter 1

It was not a mighty, ancient dragon, nor a power-maddened necromancer, nor even a fearsome Dremora of Oblivion that brought about the death of the Dragonborn, but a simple, unremarkable human. His weapon was no enchanted artifact of legend, but a single, ordinary arrow made of wood, feathers, and crudely beaten iron. The slayer of the Dragonborn was no man of great standing or rank, nor was his name known to any but the few companions who died alongside him that day, for the killer of the Hero of Prophecy was nothing but a common highwayman, a rogue brute of limited intellect and skill.

The day that Rhysan Mavis of Morrowind, Dragonborn of Legend -or to her friends simply Rhys the thief- was to die began much like any other in that part of Skyrim. Early morning dawned crisp and clear, with a damp blanket of cold mist marking winter's seemingly eternal hold on the northernmost province, even late into the month of First Seed. Three bedrolls lay side by side near a smoldering campfire, and a basic lean-to constructed of pine boughs sheltered the trio of travelers from the worst of the wind coming off the Jerall Mountains to the south. They were halfway between the two hold capitals of Riften and Falkreath, and only a few leagues from their final destination of Helgen.

Rhys was the first to awaken, as usual, and she did so reluctantly, shivering at the cold that had seeped through her fur blankets and burrowing her head deeper beneath their warm confines in hopes of a few extra minutes of comfort. However, to her dismay, this was not to be. Although nearly a year of almost constant travel in Skyrim had accustomed her to sleeping on the hard ground, Rhys' body ached with the need to stretch her limbs, and so she sluggishly obeyed. Carefully so as not to wake her companions, she slipped from beneath the warmth of her blankets into the aching cold of mountain dawn. Clad only in her simple under-armor linens, she shivered. After feeding their nearly-extinguished fire a few small branches to keep it going, Rhys took a seat on a flat, mossy boulder nearby their small pile of supplies and began her daily routine of stretching her muscles. First she loosened the kinks from her back by twisting her upper body one way and then the other. Then she grasped both hands behind her back, leaned forward, and stretched them upwards as far as they would go, feeling each shoulder give a satisfying pop. After that, she stood and went to work on her legs, taking a few moments to first shake each joint loose before getting to the more serious stretches. Putting her feet together and keeping her knees perfectly straight, Rhys bent forward until she was folded almost completely in half, with her elbows crossed and resting comfortably just above the tops of her feet. Then she did the same thing sitting down with her legs extended in front of her.

"I always feel like you're going to break something whenever you do those stretches of yours."

Rhys looked up at her sleep-rumpled traveling companion, fellow thief and Breton Etienne Rarnis, but stayed in her prone position as she answered.

"I do this to _keep_ from breaking something," she pointed out, her accented voice still rough from sleep. "Climbing through windows and jumping off rooftops is no easy business, as you well know."

Etienne chuckled and pushed himself up from his bedroll, running a hand through his long, messy, blond hair. "I prefer doors, personally. I'm not overly fond of heights."

"To each his own, I suppose," replied Rhys lightly, straightening.

At that moment, the occupant of the third bedroll finally made his appearance. A furry, grey head popped out from beneath the blankets, grumbling petulantly, "J'zargo was dreaming of someplace warm and dry. Then he woke up."

The Kahjiit mage yawned widely, stretched, then licked his whiskered muzzle and said, "I don't suppose anyone has made breakfast yet?"

"Whose turn is it to cook?" asked Rhys.

"Yours," answered both Etienne and J'zargo simultaneously.

Rhys pouted. "Damn. I hate cooking."

Sighing in resignation, she nevertheless stood. Nodding at the tiny fire, Rhys instructed, "I'll check the snares. Someone can get that ready for cooking and water the horses while I'm gone."

As she grabbed her dagger and disappeared into the surrounding woods, patting her horse's speckled flank affectionately as she passed by him, she heard the tell-tale crackle of magic as J'zargo rekindled their campfire.

The first two snares she had set the previous night yielded no catch and were untouched. The third had been snagged by something too large to capture, possibly a fox or badger, and lay tangled in the underbrush. The fourth and final snare, however, had managed to trap a young, undersized rabbit. It would do for breakfast, anyway. They had enough food left in their travel packs that they could have done without, but all three travelers agreed that even a scrawny rabbit fresh was better than dried strips of venison any day. Eager to get on the road, Rhys quickly retrieved both rabbit and snare and made to return to the camp.

She hadn't gotten far, however, when she heard the snap of a twig from directly behind her. In the instant it took to whirl around and draw her dagger, Rhys suddenly found herself surrounded by four rough-looking men, all armed with iron swords and axes, and all clad in crude, animal hide armor. Two were Nords, one was Redguard, and the other was an Orc. The Redguard was pointing a drawn hunting bow directly at her chest in a very businesslike manner. Scowling, Rhys dropped her knife and slowly put her hands in the air, dead rabbit and all.

"Well, ain't this a surprise," simpered the green-skinned Orsimer, easily the largest of the group, and clearly the leader.

Rhys glared, but remained silent. The big Nord jerked his head at her and barked, "Herg, search her for weapons. Rafiq, keep a bead on her. Any sudden moves, put an arrow between her eyes. Is that in any way unclear, girlie?"

The last part was addressed at Rhys, who sneered and ground out, "No, _sir_."

She definitely wasn't enjoying the irony of being on the opposite side of a holdup for once.

One of the Nords, a hulking brute of a man with greasy blond hair and several missing teeth, grinned and stepped forward to pat her down. He spend a great deal of time "searching" her legs and chest, to the obvious entertainment of his fellows, and Rhys began to wonder which was faster, a speeding arrow, or a full-powered Shout. In the end, her logical side won out and decided that the Redguard's arrow would reach her well before she would be able to form the syllables for any useful Shout in this situation, so she gritted her teeth and bore the filthy bandit's wandering hands for the time being.

The Nord, Herg, finally determined Rhys to be free of any additional weapons, and retreated back to the others after retrieving her dropped knife and pocketing it. He had missed the small shiv hidden in her boot, but as Rhys was unable to reach it at the present moment, the overlooked weapon did her little good.

"Alright, then, little lady," said the Orc in an exaggeratedly friendly manner. "Here's what we're going to do. You're going to lead us back to that camp of yours where your two friends are waiting. Rafiq here will make sure you don't decide to do anything stupid along the way. When we get there, you're going to tell your friends to hand over all your weapons and valuables. After that, you're free to go, and we'll be on our way. So long as you play nice, no one has to die today. Understood?"

Rhys narrowed her eyes, glaring daggers, but nodded slowly. She had little choice. These weren't Guild thieves bound by a code of conduct, but honor-less bandits who answered to no one. She couldn't pay them off, and she doubted she'd be very successful trying to intimidate or talk her way out of the situation. She'd just have to wait and go along with their demands for now, at least until the opportunity to regain the upper hand presented itself. Patience, Rhys told herself, forcing back her naturally quick temper. Watch, and wait.

The second Nord, a smaller, weasel-faced man, gave Rhys a shrewd look and said in a nasally voice, "I don't like this one, boss. She got a slippery look to 'er."

The Orc rounded on him.

"Did I ask for your opinion? No, I didn't think so. Now, shut up and do your job or I'll have Rafiq put an arrow through _your_ head instead."

The weasel-faced Nord grumbled, but fell silent as the Orc pointed in the direction of the camp and barked, "Move. Now. And keep those hands where I can see them."

They made their way slowly through the woods, approaching the camp a few minutes later. Rafiq stayed only a few paces behind Rhys and kept his bow half-drawn the entire way, giving the tiny, secretly infuriated Breton no opportunity for escape. When they emerged from the trees, Etienne and J'zargo immediately sprang to their feet, ready to draw their weapons.

"Drop your weapons or I cut her throat!" growled the Orc, whipping out a wicked-looking Orsimer dagger and tucking it beneath Rhys' chin so Rafiq could finally rest his arm and focus his efforts on looking intimidating. He grabbed the little Dragonborn by her short, black hair and yanked her head back for emphasis, exposing her pale throat to the knife.

Wordlessly, the two men dropped their blades. J'zargo's lips were curled in a menacing snarl, and Etienne's eyes were wide and terrified for his friend's safety.

"Good, now stand over there." He nodded off to the side.

Again, they obeyed. The big Nord, Herg, stood in front of them with his axe drawn, while Rafiq and the weasel-faced man began searching through their bags for valuables. Nearby, the trio's tethered horses stamped and nickered nervously, clearly sensing their masters' distress.

After a few moments, Rafiq grinned widely and held up a pair of wine bottles from their food pack. He uncorked one with his teeth, took a large gulp, and tossed it to the weasel-faced Nord, laughing, "Oi, Tralf, somat' to wet your lips."

Tralf cackled and took a messy swig, dribbling red liquid down his scraggly beard and onto his already-stained armor. He smacked his lips and laughed, "Oh, that's the good stuff, ain't it? Them Imperials sure does know their grapes, I'll give 'em that."

"Quit messing around," snarled the Orc dangerously. Tralf quickly dropped the bottle and the two bandits resumed their search.

Still anxious for his friend's safety, Etienne called across the camp in a shaking voice, "You alright, Rhys?"

"Do I bloody look alright?" she snapped. Her neck and scalp were beginning to ache from being pulled back. Then, regretting her harsh tone at the look on Etienne's face, she added more gently, "I'm fine. Just let these fetchers take what they want and we can all walk away from this."

The Orc grunted with amusement. "Listen to your girlfriend, blondie. She's got the right idea."

However, contrary to her words, Rhys was subtly trying to signal J'zargo. She narrowed her eyes, then looked pointedly at his hands, then at the fire, then at Herg, hoping he understood her message. J'zargo's slitted eyes widened almost imperceptibly, and gave a single, tiny nod. Good. Now all they had to do was wait for the right moment.

"What about the horses?" asked Rafiq.

"Grab them," answered the Orc.

Etienne's cream-colored palomino and J'zargo's brown-and-white paint allowed themselves to be untied and led into the camp without much fuss. Rhys' dappled grey stallion, however, proved to be much more of a challenge. Whinnying shrilly, Arador reared angrily when Rafiq tried to lead him away.

"Whoa! Whoa!" the bandit tried to command, to no avail. Arador tossed his great grey head and stamped his hooves threateningly.

"Get a handle on that thing!" called Herg impatiently, turning his attention briefly towards the commotion.

"I'm trying! Steady, boy, stea-_ouch!_" Rafiq yelped. "It bit me!"

_Good boy_, thought Rhys wickedly. She would have laughed, but the quick-witted Breton knew that this was the momentary distraction she needed. Taking a deep breath, she shouted, "J'zargo!" rapidly followed by, "**_Feim Zii Gron!_**"

J'zargo's fireball caught Herg in the face, and he howled and fell to the ground in agony. Infuriated, the Orc tried to slice Rhys' throat open with his dagger, only to have his hand pass right through her head as her body faded into a blueish, insubstantial mist. Unbalanced by her sudden lack of solidity, he stumbled forward, falling. Taking advantage of her temporary invulnerability, Rhys launched her ghostly body forward, away from the Orc and out of harm's way once the brief effect of her Shout ran it's course.

Meanwhile, J'zargo and Etienne were busy taking care of the other bandits. Herg was dead, his face a grizzly mess of blackened flesh, leaving only Tralf and Rafiq to deal with while Rhys contended with the Orc. J'zargo, cackling with delight, launched destruction spells at Rafiq, who dodged in and out amongst the trees with moderate success, firing arrows wildly and without aiming as he did so. At the same time, Etienne darted forward to retrieve his Elven mace from where he had tossed it earlier, then raced after Tralf, who had bolted almost before Herg had hit the ground.

"Let him go," called J'zargo. "The cowardly one will not return. Help me with this one instead!"

Turning on his heels, Etienne wheeled around and attempted to help the Kahjiit corner the quick-footed archer.

By now, Rhys' Shout had worn off, and she was once again fully solid, able to both harm and be harmed. The Orc, encumbered by the overly large, iron sword at his side and made clumsy by his ill-fitting armor, struggled to recover from his awkward stumble. Drawing the thin, pointed dirk from her boot, Rhys leaped onto his broad back and drove the needle-like shaft deep into the side of his muscular neck. The Orc barely felt the weight of the tiny Breton clinging onto his shoulders, but he certainly felt the blade. He roared and clutched at the wound, trying in vain to stem the blood that sprayed from between his thick, green fingers. Rhys dropped from his back as the Orc slumped to the ground a few moments later, scanning the camp for her weapon. She spotted the large, ebony battleaxe near where the horses, now scattered, had been, and hurried to retrieve it. Now fully armed once again and confident in their victory, Rhys grinned fiercely and turned to rejoin her friends.

The arrow that pierced her throat came suddenly and without warning. As Rhys turned, still grinning as she raised her battleaxe, ready to charge, one of Rafiq's wild, unaimed arrows skimmed just past Etienne's left ear before burying itself in the exact center of the tiny Breton's throat. Surprise bloomed momentarily across Rhys' pale, girlish face, and she fell to her knees. Panic quickly replaced her surprise as the shock passed, and the pain and realization set in. She couldn't breathe! The arrow had punctured her windpipe, cutting off her air supply, and blood gushed from the wound as she frantically grasped the shaft with fumbling fingers, trying to pull it out. Her mouth gaped open and closed as she suffocated, and her vision rapidly began to darken as she slipped to the side and fell, the fingers of one hand weakly gripping the shaft of the arrow. In a short amount of time, the pain vanished, and Rhys closed her suddenly heavy eyes. At that moment, she realized she was dying. Somehow, that knowledge didn't frighten her as much as it perhaps should have.

_I guess that's it, then. I always thought it would be a dragon that did me in. I hope the others are alright,_ wasthe last, flickering thought that passed through Rhys' mind before the darkness overtook her.

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This is an on-going story on the ES kink meme right now. All updates will appear there first, then will be uploaded here a few days later. Please review, they make me childishly happy!


	2. Chapter 2

At the other end of the camp, J'zargo and Etienne shouted triumphantly when Rafiq finally fell to the mage's lightning bolts, unaware of their friend's fatal wounding. As J'zargo crept forward to ensure the bandit truly was dead, Etienne beamed widely and looked around for the unofficial leader of their trio. Seeing Rhys' motionless body on the ground a few yards away, the thief let out a strangled cry and sprinted to her side, screaming, "J'zargo! Rhys is hurt!"

The color drained from Etienne's face as he rolled his fallen friend over and helplessly surveyed the wound. The entire front of Rhys' linen shirt was stained wine red with blood, and the arrow jutted from her neck grotesquely. He pressed his fingers to her bloodied neck and found no pulse.

"No, no, nononono…" stammered the blond thief. He carefully grasped the shaft of the arrow, and J'zargo, kneeling beside him, hissed, "Carefully!"

The Kahjiit's hands glowed with healing energy, ready to attempt to repair the damage as soon as the arrow was removed. Inside, however, J'zargo's heart and stomach twisted painfully. He knew they were too late. The tiny Breton's lips were blue, and her pretty, youthful face was the ashen grey of death. Rhys the Dragonborn was dead, and no amount of healing magic in the world would be able to bring her back.

After Etienne had very carefully worked the arrow free, J'zargo put his hands over the wound and concentrated on pushing the glowing magic into her body, praying there was yet some spark of life left in her and willing the flesh to knit itself back together.

"Why… Why isn't it working?" choked Etienne when nothing happened. Closing his eyes briefly in sorrow, J'zargo allowed his hands to drop.

"Restoration magic only works on the living," he replied heavily.

"You mean she's…?"

"I'm afraid so," sighed the mage. Etienne shook his head wildly. "No! No, she can't be. Try your spell again! Rhys is too… I mean, she's supposed to… She's the Dragonborn! What about the prophesy?"

He was shouting now, desperate. J'zargo, holding back his own tears, put a furred hand on the other man's shoulder and said gently, "She's dead, Etienne."

"But… what about the prophesy, then? According to all the legends and stories, she's the one who's supposed to face Alduin at the end of time. She can't… die."

Shaking his head, the Kahjiit replied, "I do not know, friend. For this, J'zargo has no answers."

Etienne finally broke. Clutching Rhys' cold hand, he hung his head and began sobbing silently. His wispy, blond hair fell in a curtain, shielding his face as hot tears ran down his dirty cheeks. Wordlessly, J'zargo turned away, giving the older Breton a moment of privacy to mourn. Needing both solitude and something to do, J'zargo wandered into the woods in search of their horses.

Once out of sight, he allowed his tears to run freely, dampening the fur around his eyes. He leaned against a nearby tree for support and drew a shuddering breath. Though he had only known Rhys for a short few months, he had grown quite close to the fiery Breton. Their friendship had sprouted from rivalry and a mutual competitiveness, but it had grown into a strong, sibling-like bond as they had come to respect each other's talents. J'zargo was even willing to admit that he had come to love the little Breton as a surrogate sister, and he knew that Rhys had felt the same. Both were strangers in a strange land, far from home and family, and in their friendship they had drawn strength from each other as kindred outsiders. But now… Now he had no one.

When J'zargo returned to the camp some twenty minutes later with dry eyes and all three mounts, the worst of Etienne's grief seemed to have run its course. Still kneeling beside Rhys, he was gently cleaning the worst of the blood from her face and neck with a dampened square of cloth from their supply bags.

"Didn't seem right, leaving her a mess like that," he muttered, and J'zargo nodded in understanding. He folded the cloth to a clean side, paused, then said, "She looks so small. I guess I never realized how tiny she really was. She always seemed so strong to me."

"She was a great warrior," agreed J'zargo. "And a great friend. The world is a darker place without her."

Arador, Rhys' grey, speckled horse suddenly tugged free of J'zargo's grasp and slowly stepped towards his fallen master. Lowering his dusty head, he nuzzled her coal-black hair and snuffled quietly. His liquid brown eyes seemed mournful.

"Sorry, boy," whispered Etienne, patting the side of his head. Arador slowly backed away, pacing the camp as if lost, never going more that a few yards away from Rhys, and glancing over at her every so often. The two men let him be. They spent a few minutes in unbroken silence, until Etienne finally spoke.

"I feel like I failed her."

"This was not your fault, Etienne," J'zargo assured him firmly. "Nor was it mine, or hers. No one could have seen this coming but the gods themselves."

"She saved my life from the Thalmor," Etienne pressed, his voice heavy with self-hatred. "She rescued me, brought me to safety, then stayed with me until I was well enough to travel. That's why I didn't stay in Riften after everything was said and done. I decided to travel with her so I could try to repay my debt. I owed Rhys my life, and now…" he trailed off miserably. J'zargo didn't know what to say to that, and so the two fell back into silence.

After awhile, J'zargo let out a long, steadying sigh and said somberly, "We should bring her back to Riften. Delvin and the others will want to… Delvin will want to take care of her."

Etienne cringed. "Are you sure he'll be able to? I mean, I'm sure he'll be crushed when he hears the news. Delvin was… very fond of Rhys."

"We still need to go back to Riften. That was more or less her home, after all," answered J'zargo. "We will have to send word to her father in Morrowind as well. The Guild will know how to contact him."

Sighing heavily, Etienne set down his cloth and touched Rhys' cold cheek one last time. Except, however, it wasn't cold. He jerked his hand back in surprise, gasping, and J'zargo quickly asked, "What is it?"

"Her face, i-it's hot," stammered the thief, pressing the back of his hand to her cheek. Her pale cheeks, which before were ashen grey and colorless, were now flushed rosy red, and her skin was hot to the touch, as if she were running a fever.

"What are you talking about?" demanded J'zargo, kneeling to feel for himself and observing the same inexplicable change in temperature.

Then, as the two watched, Rhys slowly began to glow with a pale, yellow-gold light. Her skin suddenly became so hot that J'zargo felt as if it would burn his hand, so he quickly pulled away and scrambled backwards, followed in suit by Etienne. With wide eyes, they watched as the same swirling light that they had on occasion seen rushing into Rhys after defeating a dragon appeared once more, but this time strangely reversed. It flowed out of her body, pouring from her mouth and eyes so brightly that Etienne and J'zargo both had to shield their own eyes. Rhys' back arched upwards as if supported by an invisible hand, and the light began to encircle her.

"What's happening?" asked Etienne fearfully. J'zargo didn't answer, his ears pressed flat to his skull and his fur standing on end as the air around them seemed to come alive.

The light surrounding Rhys seemed to collect, solidifying over the wound on her throat until it was a dense, ball-shaped mass of light. Then, with a sound of rushing wind and strange, whispering, syllables, the light began to flow into the mass, and the glowing orb rapidly grew smaller and smaller until it finally disappeared into nothingness. Rhys' body slowly sank back to the forest floor, and a hush fell over the clearing. The wound on her neck was gone.

After a few moments of stunned silence, Etienne opened his mouth to ask what in the name of Oblivion had just happened, but instead let out a startled shriek as Rhys suddenly bolted upright, gasping for air and clutching her neck.

Doubling over, the formerly deceased Rhys let out several raking coughs, before rolling onto her hands and knees and vomiting blood onto the forest floor. Etienne and J'zargo both scrabbled forward, exclaiming, "Rhys!" in shocked excitement. Rhys, in turn, groaned painfully and flopped onto her back, away from her upheaval, muttering, "Bloody hell…"

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